


Siren

by Bunney



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunney/pseuds/Bunney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Millicent struggles with what it means to be the ugly duckling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Siren

Pansy lost her virginity last night.

Well, not so much _lost_ as _misplaced_. To hear her tell it, and trust me, she’s telling anyone fool enough to slow down long enough to listen, she really hadn’t intended on letting Draco go _quite_ so far, but she was swooning with adoration for him and one thing led to another and before she knew it, she was officially deflowered.

Personally, I’m shocked. Oh, not that she squandered her virginity on _him_ , but that it took him so long to talk her out of it. I don’t like Draco, but he has an undeniable charisma that draws empty-headed witches like Pansy Parkingson like moths to a flame. I can’t believe he’s put so much time and effort into her, when she’s so obviously holding out for the Big Prize. But, no one can give Draco points for common sense. He's as big a horny git as they come.

Pansy’s holding court like a bloody princess now, ensconced in her favorite chair near the fire, surrounded by her sycophantic girlfriends and even a few of the, shall we say, less _masculine_ boys. You’d think she’d just given birth to the next Dark Lord the way she’s acting. And she’s not shut up about Malfoy’s prowess in the sack since she got back to our dorm this morning. I now know more about his penis than I ever cared to; Pansy’s described it in excruciating detail, emphasis on _excruciating_. Oh, how he hurt her! How he brought her to unimagined heights of erotic bliss! Pansy’s dramatics have the girls swooning in envy and the gay boys wishing they’d been the ones with their ankles in the air.

I’d bet galleons to knuts Malfoy’s hung like a toddler. He’s probably _paid_ her galleons to spread the lie.

I wonder if Pansy knows he’s shagging Hannah Abbott, in Hufflepuff? And, rumor has it, the Weasley prat’s little sister. Of course she doesn’t. Pansy Parkinson has the rather annoying tendency to hear only the words she wants to hear. If one of those words isn’t “beautiful” or “Draco”, she tunes out like a broken wireless set, content to live inside her narrow, dim little world, where she’s Mrs. Malfoy and her pitiful existence is spent in the pursuit of spending the Malfoy fortune.

It makes me want to weep, for every word out of her mouth is a step back into the Dark Ages for womanhood.

In all fairness, Pansy’s not a bad witch; she’s accomplished at Charms and has a frightening knowledge of poisons that makes most of Slytherin House wary of accepting any food or drink from her hands. That she would sell herself so cheaply to a man who doesn’t love her, of _that_ I’m abundantly sure, well... it’s sad.

Weary of listening to Pansy describe her bloody deflowering yet again, I get up, stuffing my homework back into my satchel. Instantly, her head snaps up, her mouth pulled down into a sulk. 

“Where are you going, Millie? I haven’t finished,” she says, as her followers give me identical looks of disapproval. How dare I interrupt her monologue? Really, Millicent, you inconsiderate slag, I can almost hear them say.

“I’m going to take a bath; I’ll be back down after,” I lie, eager now to just get away from them and the endless rehashing of Pansy’s night. Pansy smiles and it’s not at all pleasant.

“Well, take your time, Millie dear. Big girls like you need to pay special attention to all those creases and folds.” Titters of malice follow her words and she smiles more broadly, running an idle hand over her flat belly.

I want to kill her, but like a good little Slytherin, I laugh as if she’d just said the wittiest thing ever, rather than insult my admittedly generous size. No one ever shows true emotion here and sometimes it’s exhausting trying to keep up with the Machiavellian intrigue that permeates this House. Truth be told, I’ve always thought I’d have made a better Gryffindor – I just don’t have that streak of meanness that makes a proper Slytherin - but I’m not stupid enough to admit _that_ in this den of vipers.

As I cross the room, walking towards the stairs leading down to the girls’ dorm, I see Draco and several of his friends sitting together by the fire. They’re laughing and at first, I think they’re laughing at me, at what Pansy said to me, but then, following the direction of their gazes, I realize it’s Pansy who has precipitated their amusement. For a minute, I’m confused; Draco’s always treated Pansy fairly well, or at least as well as he’s capable of treating anyone. He's an unpleasant little toerag at the best of times.

But, then the meaning of it dawns and the double standard staggers me.

Giving him what he’s badgered her for all these years has lost Pansy Draco’s respect. While Pansy has been regaling all of us about Draco’s tenderness, his concern for her well being, his magnificent cock... all the while she’s been telling us this, he’s been telling his mates what an easy lay she is, how she cried when he entered her, how she curled next to him and professed her love while he plotted how to get his next conquest into bed.

I don’t like Pansy, but in a moment of feminine solidarity, I pity her. I glare at Draco and he must feel the heat of it, for he looks up at me, the smile on his face drooping a bit at the corners. He narrows his eyes at me, lets them follow the stout line of my body under the shapeless black robe that’s getting a little too snug across my hips. He looks me up and down and finds me wanting, surprising me with the unexpected hurt of it. As he leans over to whisper something to Goyle that makes him laugh and stare at my arse, I hurry to the stairs, hiding the tears that sting my eyes.

*****

Despite my size, I’m quite a good swimmer and when I’m in water, I can close my eyes and imagine I’m sleek and svelte, long legs and flat stomach and breasts that don’t need a brassiere large enough to fit Hagrid’s arse. I can lay back in the water, let it support my weight, my breasts floating on the water like great lily pads and imagine that I’m desirable.

I sit down on the edge of the tub, as scented water pours from the spigot, and imagine that I’m a siren perched on a rock, beckoning Ulysses with her enchanted song, luring him to his death. In my little fantasy, it’s Draco I’m beckoning and my intentions aren’t quite as honorable as death. I dip my hand into the hot water and close my eyes, picturing his pointy face in my mind.

But no matter how hard I try, all I see is the arrogant sneer twisting his pretty lips and Pansy’s oblivious infatuation.

It puts me off the mood.

Avoiding my mirrored reflection, I strip out of my robe and step into the water. It’s hot, bordering on too hot, but from the time I was little and it became obvious to my mother that I was going to be a Big Girl, I’d been cautioned to wash completely and thoroughly, in hot water, especially in those _creases_ and _folds_. The humiliation of Pansy’s words hit me again and tears spring to my eyes. I scrub at my face with a soapy fist.

It’s always the pretty girls, the special girls with their tiny waists and soft hair and perfect skin. I reach up to rub at a cluster of spots on my chin, tempted to try to banish them with my wand, but the specter of Eloise Midgen and her failed acne charm haunts all of us girls at Hogwarts, so the temptation is quickly squashed. I can just pop up to Madame Pomfrey’s in the morning and have her put a bit of spot ointment on them.

I sink deeper into the water, letting it buoy me up, and I feel weightless. My hair streams behind me and I feel bald. That’s an ugly thought, so I struggle back up to a sitting position, sloshing water and bubbles over the edge.

I’m restless, Pansy’s news weighing heavily on my mind. Stupid, daft bint! She gives a bad name to witches everywhere, yet I can’t help but feel a growing knot of jealousy in my stomach. She and Draco are both so perfect, so gorgeous together... the ideal Slytherin match and despite Draco’s indifferent attitude, I know that in the end, Pansy _will_ land him. 

The unfairness of it galls me.

I’m not entirely sure, but I think most of the girls in our year have already _misplaced_ their virginities. I’m usually not privy to such information, since I’m not dating or have any prospects of doing such on the horizon and therefore not of interest to most of the girls my age, but I’m pretty sure of it. I can’t help but wonder just what it is I’m missing.

Before I returned to school for third year, Mum gave me the talk – you know the one – letting me know that if I just gave it away to anyone, I’d be no better than a whore and no one would want me. Well, that won’t be a problem, Mum. No one wants me anyway. All the guys, even the ugly ones like Crabbe, want the pretty girls, the skinny girls. Hell, even Granger has more boys sniffing after her than a Mudblood deserves.

As soon as I think it, I feel guilty. Hermione Granger's never been anything but nice to me and I really have no right to cast insults at her, even to myself, when I sit here in all my obese glory. She's a decent sort and I whisper an apology to her under my breath. 

Yes, I should’ve been in Gryffindor.

I can’t help but wonder, though, about the truth of Pansy’s words. She said it hurt, really hurt, at first. I reach down between my legs, spreading them to give myself room, and finger the thick hair covering my sex. I can’t imagine what the big deal is. To be honest, the whole business sounds messy and not worth the effort.

I withdraw my hand and lay back against the cool marble of the tub, but the idea of it won’t leave my head. I reach down again, this time pushing farther, until I can rub one finger between my fleshy lips. I probe there for a moment, but nothing happens. Certainly nothing that would move me to ecstasy. Or to consider letting someone like Malfoy in there. Maybe it has to involve penetration to feel anything. 

I remove my hand again, reluctantly, feeling as if I’m missing something, some _key_ to it all. The whole idea is starting to put me in a foul mood.

Glaring around the bathroom I share with the other sixth year girls, my eyes fall on Pansy’s hairbrush, laying on the counter by the sink. An idea forms and I can’t help giggling. Pansy would _kill_ me and that alone drives me up out of the water to pad across the room and snatch it up.

It’s an ornate thing; carved wooden handle and real boar bristles. The Potions student in me plucks through the bristles, searching for strands of Pansy’s hair, but she’s a cautious witch. She’s cleaned the brush thoroughly of anything that could be used against her.

I take it back to my bath, fingering the long handle. It’ll be a poor substitute for what I want, but I’m not looking for sexual fulfillment, just an answer to an intellectual question. I quirk my lips at the lie I tell myself.

I almost lose my nerve when I climb back in the lukewarm water and realize that I have to submerge the brush, but I’m not about to attempt this anywhere else. At least if someone comes in, I can hide the damn thing.

Holding my breath, I dip my hand and the brush under the water’s surface, half-expecting some brush protection spell to shrill through the room, but only the sound of dripping water answers. Whew.

I have to tilt my hips up to make room for the brush and it’s bloody uncomfortable, but I push the handle deeper and now it’s _really_ uncomfortable. I’m assuming that a man’s penis is a little more flexible than this rigid wooden hairbrush. It does hurt, but not how Pansy’s meant. The handle is digging into something and now, it _does_ hurt. In a temper, I jerk it out and toss it away, where it rolls across the floor, under the sink.

I must be frigid. That or sex is only for the pretty people, which might be closer to the truth. Jealousy of Pansy overwhelms me and I cover my face with both hands. It’s only when I look down between my legs, a few minutes later, that I realize I’m bleeding.

It streams in thin, pink threads from my vagina and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve started my monthly. But when I shift on the hard surface of the tub, a sharp sting makes me gasp. I reach down again, all thoughts of pleasuring myself gone. I probe a little and press my fingertip against my vagina. I can feel the tiny cut and the thick well of blood there. 

Shame guts me. I stare at the watery smear of red on my fingers, but even though I know I’ve not mortally injured myself and the sting of the cut is already fading away, shame and a righteous anger make me want to scream. I even open my mouth to do it, to scream until I’m hoarse, but of course I don’t. The attention it would bring is unacceptable. I’ve hurt myself, made myself bleed, and for what? Envy of Pansy Parkinson because she’s given herself to someone entirely unworthy of her? Guilt because I can’t take care of myself? I can’t keep out of Tracy Davis’s stash of Belgian truffles or Blaise Zabini’s raspberry sugar quills?

I heave myself out of the bathtub and walk across the floor to the mirror. I stand there, staring at myself and what I see surprises me.

I’m fat. No denying that. But I have good skin, clear and smooth and healthy. A few spots here and there, but I’m sixteen years old. I’d bet Malfoy has spots on his scrawny arse. 

My breasts are large, yes, but I think of my mother and my five younger siblings. I have my mother’s breasts and she nourished the six of us there. I remember watching her, especially with my youngest sister, her white breasts smooth and blue-veined against the baby’s pink face. I reach up and cup them in my hands, knowing with a woman’s assurance that my own children, when I have them, will find their hunger sated here.

My hips are wide, another genetic trait courtesy of good old Mum, and I really don’t have a waist, but my arse is high and firm and I have nice long legs. A bit thick in the ankles, but my feet are big enough to balance it all out.

I finally look up at my face. Wide cheekbones and a large chin, but I have a nice smile. I grin at my reflection and yes, I do. Straight, white teeth and pretty brown eyes. I peer a little closer and I can see that my eyes have little sparkles of green in them. I look at myself so seldom, that I’d never noticed.

Minutes later, I’m still standing there admiring all I have to offer, when the door opens and Pansy and Daphne walk in. Pansy takes one look at me, standing starkers in front of the mirror, and bursts out laughing. “Honestly, Bulstrode! You actually _like_ looking at all that blubber?”

I smile at Pansy’s reflection and whatever she sees there makes her face go rigid and angry.

“I’m beautiful, Pansy. And I like looking at beautiful things.”

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Voices and Vaginas of HP Women Challenge, in 2005.


End file.
